


That Magic in your Pants, it's Making Me Blush

by drabbleandfluff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Facials, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Avengers (2012), Urination Kink, Watersports, What happens in Budapest stays in Budapest (unless you want to do it again), extensive exposition because I cannot stop my blathering, golden showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drabbleandfluff/pseuds/drabbleandfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an op in (say it with me) Budapest, Clint discovers showers are places to get dirty as well as get clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Magic in your Pants, it's Making Me Blush

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as just porn. Then the words got in the way.  
> I've been fiddling with this for weeks (months), and I just have to post it or keep groping at it forever.  
> It's un-beta'd... so grammarians, beware.

 

 

Clint lazily opens his eyes to warm morning sunlight, his brain gradually waking to refocus for the new day.  The pillow beneath his head is not his (it’s soft- _soft-soft_ , not the stiff synthetic pillows of the SHIELD apartments), the sheets against his skin are smooth and not bleached within an inch of it’s life.  He’s in a hotel room, but not one on domestic soil.  He can smell the foreign-ness of the sheets.

He takes in the unfamiliar surroundings with a slightly detached curiosity-- the lavish hotel room that communicates a pay scale that is _way more_ than he’s ever experienced before.  Since he knows who he’s with, though, waking up alone isn’t a surprise.  

 _So this is what being on an high-end Op is like._   

 

Last night had been a late one here in the city for them, socializing and being out in the public eye just for the sake of being seen.  Their latest op having had to activate an old alias of Coulson’s, still obscure enough not to have unwanted history attached and yet prodigious enough to render a dangerous and noteworthy reputation.  Trust Coulson to have an undercover persona able to walk that fine a line.

They were supposedly meeting their mark here in Budapest, of all places.  Eastern Europe always managed to make Clint uneasy in a most indescribable way.  

Well, not true exactly, he could sure as fuck describe it--  it was old and cold and creepy.  

Clint grew up in the American Midwest-- cornfields, football, and trucker hats; where there were churches on every city block, and a bar at every corner.  He was comfortable in wide open spaces, and had learned to favor high ones.  

These centuries’ old architecture, and culture,and languages, was just something he’d never been exposed to much.  It was something he knew Coulson wanted him to experience though, for him to get to learn more of.  

Clint’s been learning a lot over the past few years.  Italian, German, common phrases of the Arabic language; how to fly planes and jets, and helicopters; what pressure points on a human body made it most vulnerable (amenable) to interrogation; _what those damned colored plastic tags on the bread meant at the grocery store._  The sound a man makes as he takes his last breath.

Some days, even he can’t believe what he’s been up to.

 

All things said though, Clint realizes that this could probably be one of the last ops he is going to be on, partnered with Phil.  Phil had recently gotten his promotion to level seven, and despite Phil’s objections to the contrary, he was more than likely heading out of the day-to-day operations end of things.  Fury wants Phil to head a Strike Team (perhaps even a Division); designation and field team specialization to be determined.  

All that really means to Clint, though, is that things are changing.

Clint is six years into being an agent of SHIELD; an asset, a Specialist.  True, his intake and unprecedented climb into Special Operations territory is, well… _unprecedented_ \-- but he is Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman--  he doesn’t miss.   Apparently, Coulson’s back is a favorite of Fury’s, because whenever Coulson goes out into the field, Clint is sure to follow.

He only hopes he’s good enough to get picked for Coulson’s Strike Team.  No matter what’s happening between them, Clint needs to know he can and will get by on his own skills, on his own measure.  (Yeah, he knows he’s good.  But is he good enough?  Is he ever good enough (will he ever be) for Coulson?)

Before setting down that road of thought _yet again_ , Clint shakes himself out of it and looks over to the side of the bed Coulson’s vacated.  The rumpled sheets and the slight warmth of the covers tell him that Phil hasn’t been gone long at all.

 

That gets a smile pulled onto Clint’s face, and he gets up to start looking.  And it’s easy--  the sound of the shower running in the adjacent bathroom is simple enough.

Clint pushes the door open with the blunt tips of his fingers (it had been left ever-so-slightly ajar),  a puff of moist steam hits him in the face as he walks in.  Glancing over into the shower through the double-wide glass doors of the stall, gets him _the best view_ of Phil’s backside.  Phil is turned away, right shoulder angled into the spray; water streaming off his skin.

Clint openly admires Phil’s ass.  Yeah, he can admit it, he totally lusts after it.  Unlike his own, which is high and tight and round (and so fucking bite-able according to Phil), Phil’s ass is chiseled and firm.  There isn’t a lot of fat on Phil’s body, he is mostly lean muscle hidden beneath gorgeous dark suits--  and despite the ample hair on his chest and down his belly (Clint’s favorite trail to follow), Phil’s ass is smooth, like marble.   

Clint loves to grab at it in his hands-- dig his fingers into one solid cheek, into the shapely muscle and move Phil as he needs it.  As he wants him.   _Oh_. and Phil growls appreciatively when Clint squeezes and works him harder;  shows his emphatic buy-in by eagerly pounding into Clint’s ass.

Without thought, (like an invisible leash) Clint is pulled towards the shower by an inexplicable force.

 

“Hey,” Clint murmurs almost shyly, from the opposite side of the glass, “--want a bit of company in there?” 

Phil turns at his voice, clearing the water out of his eyes and face with a flick of his head.  The gesture makes Phil’s hair stick out on one side in the most adorable no-nonsense way, and Clint feels himself smiling like a goof.  He was hoping to convey a leer at the soapy-wet nakedness on blatant display in the shower as he stands outside of it still dressed in his sleep pants, but he knows his face has failed in giving himself the upper hand against this man.

He almost never gets the upper hand on Phil.  It doesn’t stop him from trying every single time.

 

One thing these handfuls of months with Phil has enlightened on Clint, is that Phil is not shy in the least when it comes to sex or nudity.  

It gave credence to how complete, how utterly solid, Phil Coulson had crafted and honed his Agent persona.  Agent Coulson was professional, calm and precise, he was exacting; expecting the same amount of commitment from the agents on his teams, as he gave of himself.  All of which presented Coulson as demanding and somehow standoffish, or aloof.

Clint had to admit that he, too, had bought into the glamour all those years ago.  That it had taken years of being with SHIELD (three out of six-- that’s half his so-called career here, okay?  and he’s Hawkeye, for fuck’s sake), of being on ops with Coulson as senior agent at first, then as handler for undercover ops, long term covert ops and even with the in-between-easy-peasy ‘milk runs’;  for Clint to break past his own prejudice and first impressions and _see_.

What Clint had found after he’d taken the time, was a stalwart loyalty; intelligence, a dry wit, an anomaly of quiet competence in an ocean of boisterous braggarts. A man so comfortable in who he was, that being seen as an ordinary everyman by anyone else didn’t phase him in the slightest.  That having most people underestimate him or forget who he was, never impacted how perfectly he did his job.

So it’s to Clint’s surprise (and _goddamn thrill_ ), that Phil gives so fully of himself when it’s just the two of them.  And however they found their way together here, _like this_ ; well… Clint’s all in.  

Under torture, Clint will never, ever, _never_ admit, that he had once thought Phil would be mediocre at best as a partner-- a bed partner, his man.  ( _Jesus fuck, okay, the guy just didn’t look it.)_  In Clint’s defense, it’d been during one of their first meetings and Clint had just come off a fourteen day survival drill and he was tired, and dirty and _thirsty_ …. and this guy had walked up to their returning crew looking sharp and freshly showered and _nourished_.  Clint can say that it was probably pure jealousy at the moment for his unkind thought.  And that’s all he was going to say about it.  The End.  Thank you for your consideration.

 

Just looking at Phil now-- abs flexing easily beneath the skin, wet hair flattened and accentuating his pecs… the line leading down his belly towards his delicious cock… fuck.  yeah.  Clint had been wrong.  So fucking wrong.  Wrong. Wrong. Dead to rights wrong.  

Clint’s sliding open the shower door almost before he gets the affirmative from Phil that he wants the company--

Phil grins with his eyes, “it’s a two man shower…” he shrugs nonchalantly, turning away from Clint.

Oh.  Clint huffs at Phil’s back.   _Its going to be like that_.  Someone’s in a good mood this morning.

He quickly twists the dial on his own shower head (yeah, it really is an actual two man shower, there is a hell of a lot of space in here), for a nice hot spray and ducks underneath.  He groans at how refreshing the water feels against his skin, rubbing at his chest as he turns towards Phil.

Phil, who still has his back to him; and is washing his hair.  The tease.  

“You wanna wash my back?”  Clint asks cheekily, “I’ll return the favor and wash your front--"

“Hm," Phil grunts under the spray once again, “I’ll pass….” he declares dryly.

Clint glares (pouts) at Phil’s back.  

The freckles spread across Phil’s shoulders are asking to be tasted, and licked.  The soft skin at the nape of his neck, begging to be bit.  Clint licks his lips.  

 

He turns back to the his own shower and opens his mouth to the spray, swishing a mouthful of water to rinse the stale taste of sleep away.  He spits it down into the drain.  Clint fills his mouth again, and glancing back at Phil, takes a second to admire the man’s straight spine.  The knobs of vertebrae he wants to suck on.

Swishing the water thoroughly (and obnoxiously) in his mouth, Clint spits the water out again in a powerful jet stream--  hitting Phil directly between his shoulder blades.

He almost snorts water through his nose as he watches Phil absolutely _freeze_ mid-motion and turn stunned eyes towards him.  He gifts Phil with his most shit-eating grin.

Phil arches an eyebrow, face devoid of all emotion, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I was sharing a shower with a five year old.”

“Eww,” Clint _replies,_ wrinkling his nose, “-- kinda gross, boss.”

“Funny.  I was thinking the same thing...”

 

Except not.  Clint (Hawkeye here, remember?) can see how Phil’s eyes have darkened as he’s turned, and it’s not just at Clint’s nakedness either.  Phil is sporting a half-chub that wasn't there a few seconds ago and Clint is _oh-so-very interested_ to see if he can make it a full one.

He tips his head up into the shower spray again, dropping his jaw, watching Phil (as Phil watches Clint), as he fills his mouth again with water.  Clint doesn’t miss the slight widening of Phil’s eyes, nor the small twitch of his dick.

With a smirk, Clint swishes the water in his mouth again for the sound effect ( _anticipation_ is part of the beauty in all things), while Phil stands there with a _don’t-you-fuckin’-dare_ minute head shake--  and then Clint quickly shoots the water from his lips before he can think himself out of it--  straight into Phil’s chest, arching up towards his collarbone, ending at Phil’s chin-- making Phil jerk his head away so he doesn’t get it in the face.

_Holy fuck.  That was hot._

Clint gleefully fills his mouth again quick- _quick_ (in that half-a-second that Phil had flinched away), and takes a split-second third shot, this time straight between Phil’s eyes.

His shoulders and back hit the tile _hard_ as Phil moves fast and body-checks him; covering Clint and pushing him flush against the wall.  Phil’s forearm presses tight against his throat, his right hand pushes Clint’s chin up, effectively stopping the water spurting out and forcing Clint to swallow the rest or choke.

“You,” Phil rasps, low and deadly into Clint’s ear; the water shot from Clint’s mouth is running down his face, dripping off his eyebrows and the tip of his nose “-- _are a menace_.  Like a child, maybe I should throw you over my knee right now and spank you…” he threatens.

Clint’s head is still angled upwards, but he’s able to catch Phil’s eyes.  And fuck, if Phil being all intimidating doesn't hit all of Clint’s buttons.  The man looks stone cold calculating and _dangerous_ , if Clint hadn’t been sharing his shower by invitation (heh, he was _invited_ , right?), he would’ve been concerned for his well being.

But there’s a smugness in Clint’s gaze, a sparkle in his bright blue eyes, and he chuckles ( _he wants to crow_ ), “-you sure ‘bout that?  I’m not the one with my junk fuckin’ at attention--  so don’t tell me you don’t appreciate it.”

To emphasize his point, Clint shifts his hip and brushes up against Phil’s hard cock, pulling a sharp gasp from Phil’s lips.  Looking into his eyes, Clint can see the arousal burning in the grey-blue and Clint grins, sharp and promising.

He rolls his hips again, looking for a little friction for himself; when instead of his dick filling in interest, his bladder gives a painful twinge of its own instead.

“Ugh.” Clint sighs, “Hey, um, I gotta call a ‘timeout’ here… ” Clint grimaces, “I gotta piss.”

He waits for Phil to let him go.  

He holds Phil’s heated gaze, quirking an eyebrow in question when Phil doesn't move.  Clint feels a tingling trawl up his spine as he doubts whether or not Phil’s going to let him go.  If he’s going to be made to ask again.  Or piss all over himself.   Clint watches as Phil’s lips part and get stuck on a thought.  After a pause, something passes through Phil's eyes that Clint can't name.  Phil steps back with an ‘as-you-like’ wave of his hand.

Clint winks as he moves past the older man, leaning in to lick a drip of water still clinging to the end of his nose, “Thanks, babe,” he purrs; and gets a swat on the ass in reply.  

He moves to position himself above the shower drain, then closes his eyes and tries to relax himself enough to let go.     

Concentrating on the feel of the hot water hitting his back as Clint faces away from the spray, any thoughts of self consciousness simply don’t occur.  Phil has seen him battle the common cold and a stomach flu; Phil has held the blood in his body with his own hands.  He and Phil have had many an op in the jungles of some sweltering foreign country, they’ve tread water for hours together, they’ve had dysentery together… there really wasn’t anything that embarrassed him anymore, not when it came to Phil.

So when he feels the give in his bladder, it doesn’t phase him.  Clint just tilts his head back a bit more under the spray and sighs as he relieves himself.

 

Soft lips nip at the corner of his mouth, his jaw; teeth bite as he feels Phil close in on him.  Clint hums in contentment.  He tilts his head forward to chase Phil’s lips, and grins when Phil sucks at his bottom lip.

Clint opens his eyes wide when he suddenly realizes Phil is _much too close_.  A quick glance at the drain and Clint flushes in dismay as he sees his stream of piss is _raining down on Phil’s inner ankle_ , only to run across the top of Phil’s foot as he jerks in alarm.  Trying to stop his pissing only causes an ache in his still-too-full bladder, and Clint grunts with the discomfort.  Still, he attempts to step back, flustered apology on his lips-- when he catches sight of Phil’s eyes and it feels as though his breath’s been punched right out of him.

Phil’s face is taut, flushed with excitement.  His irises, only a thin ring of blue surrounding dilated pupils, fluctuate between unparalleled lust and questioning uncertainty.  

 In a bathroom filled with steam and condensation practically dripping off the ceiling, Clint feels his throat go dry.  Because fuck. _Phil was so getting off on this._

 

"Fuck, Phil… Phil,” Clint swears, “yeah?...” he asks.  He has to.  He’d stopped pissing, sure; but _he really needs to keep going_.

Phil, the relief palpable in his eyes the instant he realizes Clint is in on this-- smiles tentatively for a suspended beat, then grins lasciviously, “Yeah, Clint-- I want you to.  I want you to piss on me.”  

He takes a step back away from Clint and slowly, ever so slowly, kneels down onto the tile floor.  "Think you can do it?" his voice drops low and reverent, the sound so raw, _so hopeful_ , “-- mark me?  Dirty me up..."

Fuck.  Instantly, Clint’s lizard brain, no, not even lizard, more like cave-man brain roars--  mine. Mine.  Mineminemine.  No one touches what’s mine.  Phil wants Clint to piss on him. Phil wants to be marked as Clint’s. Clint’s alpha male howls in triumph, in declaration.

“Jesus, Phil,” Clint’s voice is _wrecked_ , “you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

And yet, he is drawn to what Phil wants… it makes Clint want.  No one’s ever opened themselves up to Clint like this.  Has wanted to share with Clint the way Phil never seems ashamed of anything.

And for that, Clint will do anything Phil asks.

 

Clint takes his soft cock in hand and aims it towards the middle of Phil’s chest.  He doesn’t stroke or touch himself any more than he needs to-- the last thing he needs is to get his dick excited.  There’s no way he can piss and be hard at the same time, that shit never goes well.  It’s like crossing streams--  not gonna happen.

Clint finally gets to pissing again after a few more seconds, gets the stream going strong again, and as he watches--  Phil’s face-- his chest -- bursts lusty red with a full flush of blood under skin.  The blush starts at the base of Phil’s neck and washes down over his shoulders and into his chest.  His nipples harden and stand erect… Phil moans brokenly, his face slackens in bliss as the hot piss ricochets off his skin…

“Yesss,” Phil hisses, like it pains him, “fuck, that’s so good.   _So good_.”

Phil’s hands move toward the middle of his chest, cupping together right beneath his breastbone, to catch Clint’s piss as it runs down his body.

“Give it to me... gimme more Clint,” Phil implores, “lay it on me.”

“Jesus fuck, Phil,” Clint is falling, _falling_. “.. anything you want.”

Water from the shower splashes over Phil’s shoulders, diluting Clint’s urine.  As the mixture of water and piss mixes in Phil’s hands, he raises them up to his face, full palms cupped almost reverently and _pours it into his mouth_ ; over his chin and throat. He rinses his mouth with it, playfully spits it out in a high arc onto the shower tile.

The unabashed indulgence in Phil takes Clint aback.  Like just being able to share this with Clint has opened up something in Phil-- warmth fills Clint's chest, makes it simultaneously feel all at once too tight and yet too open.

As Clint’s stream ends into fat drips off his cock, Phil rises up gracefully.  Placing fingertips to Clint’s chest, Phil backs Clint up to the wall again and leans in close.  “Thank you,” he rasps, in the most fucked-out-drunk-voice Clint has ever heard from Phil.  Phil’s eyes are heavy, half-lidded and glazed, his face is bright with the flush of lust; he’s breathing hard. And so goddamn beautiful.

 

Clint’s dick by now is ready to get in on the action, and is more than half hard, sticking almost straight out from his body.

Phil looks down at it and then looks up to Clint’s eyes.  A very predatory-like smile eases over his features.  “I’m gonna make you scream, I’m gonna make you forget your name…” Phil leans in, licks a wide swath on Clint’s neck, the corner of his jaw; moves down his body heaving for breath.  Dark promises fall from Phil’s lips as he goes to his knees again, “I’m gonna suck you-- suck you dry and take you down my throat and let you fuck as long as you want…”

Clint wants to have a witty reply, give as good as he gets, all he can do is gurgle.

Phil opens his mouth and snakes his tongue out, points it, so that the tip of his tongue licks up against the slit of Clint’s dick, picking up any last drops of piss lingering.  Phil slides his tongue back and forth across the head, like he’s savoring the texture, the taste, then proceeds to tease the rim of Clint’s slit with the tip of his tongue.  Over and over his tongue traces the sensitive skin, circles; then tries to worm it’s way inside.

Clint groans at the pressure, at the promise of something entering him from that direction.  “ _Philll_ …” he moans, staring down his chest only to see a look of pure satisfaction slide over Phil’s face.

Phil dips his head and sucks at the underside of Clint’s cock, hums as he nuzzles down to the root and opens his jaw wide to pull one of Clint’s balls into his mouth.  Phil tongues him fervently, then opens _even wider_ and pushes the other ball into his mouth with dexterous, clever fingers.  Phil sucks both balls eagerly, teasing what he can with his tongue.  Drool is leaking sloppily out the corners of Phil’s mouth, down past his chin-- he looks fucking _debauched_ , strung out on bliss; and Clint’s never been this turned on.  Never.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Clint pants, keens, “oh.. _oh shit_ , Phil…” breath _whooshes_ out of his lungs, he feels his eyes about to roll into the back his head.

Clint whines, knees almost buckling as Phil pulls off and immediately wraps his lips around Clint’s cock, taking him in hard and deep.  Phil goes _fast_ , mouth sucking so hard; that Clint feels his fucking toes curl into the tile floor for goddamn leverage.  Fuck.  

Clint’s head thumps back against the wall.  He may have screamed.

Phil is a fucking champ at sucking cock.  He goes at it like it’s a goddamned prize to have a load spurt down his throat, to have Clint practically gag him with cock.  

Clint can’t breathe, he can’t hold out.  Phil has reduced him in minutes (in seconds), to a sixteen year-old getting his dick sucked for the first time.  His dick is on a hair trigger-- he can hear himself blabbering, swearing, fucking promising anything, _anything_ … because his hips are thrusting in, and he is keening out loud at that tongue pulling at the head of his dick on each upswing of Phil’s mouth, at Phil’s mouth--  Phil glorious in making Clint see stars, see the origin of the Universe, fuck. See the motherfucking face of--

Clint’s hand reaches out-- wraps around the back of Phil’s skull and holds him there as he grinds his hips to get closer, to get deeper into Phil’s throat.  He can feel it, the white hot heat in his belly blazing up; the fire igniting along his spine and shooting up to the base of his skull.  He’s gonna come, _big_.  And messy.

Before he even realizes what he’s going to do-- Clint pulls out of Phil’s mouth.  He hears the broken whine from Phil when his cock slips out-- but Clint grabs onto his dick with his free hand and strokes himself once, twice-- and aims his load onto Phil’s face.

With an obscene groan (and not a scream), Clint comes, thick white streaks of mess that pulse over Phil’s face.  Clint aims it into Phil’s mouth, over his lips and tongue; he pulses over Phil’s cheek and down his neck.  He milks one last dribble over Phil’s collarbone, and watches Phil’s face as he takes it all in.

Phil’s eyes had fluttered closed with the first shot of hot come, each successive pulse drawing a soft cry from Phil’s throat.  Phil looks like he is barely hanging on, his hands clenching hard wrapped around Clint’s thighs, his cock flushed so deeply, painfully, red and standing straight up against his belly, almost purple at the tip. Spurts of precome drip down the turgid length.  

Phil is shaking, trying to hold on, trying to control himself and _not come_ \--  and fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing Clint has seen in a long time.

“Phil,”  he rasps, voice _gone,_ “Phil…”

Clint watches as Phil slowly opens his eyes, like he’s struggling with it.  When Phil is finally able to meet Clint’s eyes with his own, Clint can see the vivid blue irises, bright; wild with the need to come.  

Clint swipes a thumb across Phil’s stained cheek, “C’mon up here,” he says gruffly, body fucked out and tingly.

He tips Phil’s head up by his chin, and pulls him to stand with the force of those fingers alone.  He pushes his come-laden thumb into Phil’s mouth.

Phil stands; sucks on Clint’s thumb.  Still hard.  Still eager.  Clint leans in and replaces his thumb with his mouth.  

Clint kisses Phil, all tongue and wet ravenous heat.  He threads both hands through Phil’s hair at his nape, holding him in place as Clint’s tongue maps Phil’s mouth.  Clint shows him exactly how much he wants Phil, how much he so needs Phil in his life.

He kisses Phil, keeps him busy with his lips and tongue until Phil can’t take it anymore and rubs his dick into Clint’s hip with a soft plea at the back of his throat.

“Please… please, Clint,” he urges into Clint’s mouth.

Done with teasing Phil, Clint drops a hand down and wraps it around Phil’s cock, “Yeah, babe, I’ll take care of you,” he promises, while nipping at the corner of Phil’s jaw.

Phil makes a broken sound as Clint takes a firm grip.    

“Fuck,” Clint confesses, as he lets go of Phil’s dick to swipe his hand through some of his spunk still clinging to Phil’s chest hair, then brings it back down and really gets serious stroking Phil.  “I can’t believe you, Phil.  Everytime I think I know everything about you, you find something else to blow me away.”

Phil whines and wraps a hand around the back of Clint’s neck, _squeezing hard_ , while bracing the other against the wall.  His hips rock viciously into Clint’s fist.  

“C’mon, babe.” Clint growls into Phil’s ear, “it’s your turn,” his hand pumping relentlessly, “come on-- come.”  Clint can feel it, the instant Phil’s cock grows incredibly hard, then pulses into Clint’s hand.

A high pitched sob falls out of Phil’s mouth as he shudders against Clint.  Hands grip tight as he holds him close, and Clint hopes he’s got bruises to show for it later.  Clint feels the harsh gasps of breath against his skin, his collar bone; ticklish and yet so very satisfying.

They stand together, in the shower, catching their breaths.

 

“So…” Clint says, first to break the silence of running water, “that was new.”

Phil stiffens against him and slowly raises his head to meet Clint’s eyes.  “Good new or bad new?”

“Oh definitely good new, boss,” Clint smiles, he wants it to be sexy and leering, he thinks it probably comes out too soft and indulgent.   _Again._

“Awesome,” Phil replies, slightly dorkily, but mostly relieved and happy.  He brushes his lips against Clint’s, lingeringly, holding him close.

 

They stand there for a few more stolen moments, until Phil takes a deep breath, pats him one last time on an ass cheek and steps back.  He leans in for a last press of lips, chaste but full of so much promise, and murmurs,

“Alright, time to get the game on.  We’ve got a Spider to catch.”

  
  
  



End file.
